


When We Fall

by madsthenerdygirl



Series: Moneybond [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has always found a way to be the exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2012 when I was eighteen. I'm now crossposting it here along with the rest of my work. This is the first in my Moneybond series--a series of connected oneshots featuring a romantic relationship between James and Eve.

He never meant for this to happen. He generally doesn't mean for half of the stuff that goes on in his life to happen, but this time he really means it. This is possibly the stupidest thing he's ever done, and that is saying something. After all, included among his list of stupid decisions are several explosions, forgetting a lock pick kit, and skipping his Identifying Deadly Poisons class while in training.

Normally he'd just go with his instinct on this, since that's his usual M.O., but this time his instinct is something he can't trust. He can't rely on it, not in a situation like this. He's weighed the pros and cons, but they make his head swim with the various implications and it all just makes his head ache and he wants the driest martini he can find.

He tried talking to Q about it, a little desperate and seeing no other option, but the whippersnapper who's kind of become his best friend nearly did a spit take laughing when he kind of sort of skirted the subject.

"Are you implying," the techie asked, "That the one woman you  _haven't_  slept with is the one you might have feelings for?"

James glared, Q snapped his mouth shut faster than a bear trap, and the subject was never brought up again.

The thing is, he did plan to sleep with her. Every spy has a hobby, something that they do to relieve stress, something to make them feel human again. This job… it does a lot of things to you, messes you up in the most twisted, shitty ways, and basically makes you feel like a nobody, or an animal, or a murder, or a god, or a pawn, or something other than a normal, slightly flawed, sometimes imperfect human being. Everybody had an outlet; otherwise they'd go insane before a year was up. Alec plays chess. Mallory (he still thinks of him as Mallory in his head, because he isn't M, there was only one M for him) goes to the shooting range. Q does… well, any number of things. This week it was hacking into the national media database and then "predicting" celebrity facts in order to win the department's betting pool, but who knew what he'd be up to by the end of the month.

007 has a hobby.

Sex.

Shocking, yes. Everyone can put on their appalled faces now.

He finds women beautiful, yes, and he is a red-blooded male so he enjoys it, yes, but there's more to it. After dealing in death for days, plunging his hands into blood and losing allies and friends as soon as he found them, it does him good to feel alive. He needs to feel warmth, and love, and intimacy. He needs to feel human and worthy of something, not like a man who cocks it up every other mission and always ends up setting something on fire. He appreciates women in every form, of every race and shape and ethnicity and background and nationality. The femme fatales, the blushing innocents, the exotic beauties, the fierce agents, the hard-to-gets, the sassy sidekicks… whatever category they fall into (and he never knew them long enough to break out of that category) he loves it. For that one night, they are his true love. Each one is respected and adored equally, because they all do their part in bringing him back to life. Each mission killed him, and they resurrected him.

Perhaps that's why it's so easy to leave them behind, in the end. Whether they survive or not (and, since he and bad luck are old pals, more often than not they don't), at the end of the mission or rare vacation they part ways. It's been that way for five years. It's been that way since Vesper. He'd like to say he still carries a torch for her, but that part of him is dead. It can never be brought back to life. He's changed since then, no longer the person he was then, and while if she'd lived he's certain that they would have changed and grown together that's not the case. Quite simply, Vesper is dead, and so is the man she loved.

That's partly why this is all such a shock to him. He wishes that she'd been more pliant, letting him touch her the way he'd wanted to, but she'd just told him to hold still and kept on with the innuendo and shaving like this was something she did every Saturday night. If she'd given in…

He could have moved on, then. Maybe.

He worries, though, that he wouldn't have. That he'd still be in this same predicament.

Every time, every goddamn time, he walks into the front office and she greets him as coolly as if she's never met him before. Nothing he does fazes her. He's brought her gifts a few times, mementos from whatever exotic location he's been this time. Sometimes it's even something to do with his mission. She plays the guessing game and listens to his stories, but she doesn't get shocked or give in to his baiting. She goes toe to toe and meets him, tit for tat, and he's often the one who gets knocked out at the end of their match. She never loses her calm. She listens to him like she really cares, asking intelligent questions and remembering the slightest details, but she never gets sucked in. She never falls under his spell.

She's witty, too. Quips, one-liners, innuendos, double entendres, sarcasm, sly remarks… she's got it all, a vast arsenal, and she uses them to shoot him down each and every time. Fortunately he acquired a sense of humor, an armor to wear after his parents died to protect him now that they couldn't, and while his is on the dry side he can still match her. She's intelligent, always studying some new subject, and oftentimes he strolls down to Q Division only to find her there, either bombarding one of the researchers or fiddling with a computer or hotly debating something with Q. God, he hopes Q doesn't have a crush on her. And  _bugger_ that means he's jealous, and he's never been jealous before, either.

Then there's the little trick she does where he strolls into the front office and she reads his mind, knowing exactly what kind of mood he's in and what he's thinking about and precisely how pissed he is at Mallory now (or vice versa).

And have you seen her? Have you  _seen_  her? He's been with a plethora of women, unfathomable numbers (he certainly gave up trying to keep track) but she's a rare one. Supermodel looks by anyone's standards. And the thing is… he can't put her in a box. She could be a femme fatale, he's seen that in her, and she's certainly feisty and fierce, but there's that playfulness, and that sassiness, that always throws him off. She's cut and dry and hard to get, but then she's flirty, or open and raw, or silent and thoughtful. There are moments of innocence, too, little glimpses that he hangs onto like they're flawless diamonds. And she's definitely exotic. He loves that she doesn't soften her hair and put loads of product into it like a good eighty percent of African women in a first world country. It frames her face perfectly and makes her stand out, makes her look natural and native and it  _fits_  her. She's always a little different but she's always the same; it's not like she's changing. It's just that every time he is with her he uncovers a little more, sees a little more, uncovering her like an archeologist on the find of his life.

He didn't realize how much he'd opened up to her until it was too late. Opening up to anyone is dangerous in his business, and this time he'd done it with someone he was actually attracted to (Q and the other 00s don't count because for one thing, they're all male, and for another, they're all so closed off themselves that sharing anything personal qualifies as an Olympic event). But he'd done it, gone and pretty much laid his life and his thoughts and fears and feelings and every other piece of shit right in front of her like an open book. He's a 00, damn it--he knows better than this. Or he should, anyway. At least that's what everyone (M, Mallory, Q, Alec) has been telling him.

It's happened now, though, and there's no going back. He's fallen. Hard. Or maybe he's still in the process of falling. He's not sure. In any case he's stepped off and is either in midair or on the ground again (with all common sense shattered like a viciously broken body) and he can't exactly reverse gravity. Or fate. Or whatever you want to call this. He's leaning towards a cruel joke or evil puppet master of a God but in any case he is done for. He didn't mean for this to happen. Really, he didn't.

Yeah, and he didn't mean to blow up that satellite, as Alec likes to remind him. And yet, look at that, it happened anyway.

He doesn't realize just how  _hard_  he's hit until Mallory decides--stupid, stupid Mallory--that since all of the 00s are occupied elsewhere and Bond clearly trusts her, he's going to send her to Ireland where Bond's currently stationed to assist him with a slightly more delicate and bureaucratic part of the mission. Ah, yes, diplomacy. It's right up there with maniacal revenge-seeking masterminds and overly complicated gadgets on his Does Not Like list.

He swears to God if Q ever gives him a crazy multi-bullet-heat-seeking-finger-print-reading crap gun like that again he will beat that kid to death with it.

Of course, he's in Ireland because of some nasty explosions that have been carefully staged to look like IRA work when in reality, it's a smaller organization with a much larger agenda. In other words, not the place you want to be if you've been behind a desk for the last year and the last time you shot a gun you missed (not that he blames her for that shot, 005 or 009 would have missed too).

She wasn't supposed to be in any danger. She was supposed to be safe. And deep down, he knows that Mallory would never have sent her if he suspected for a second that she would get into harm's way. The new head of M16 has grown quite attached to her, in a father-figure kind of way (don't ever tell him that or he'll shoot you).

But bad luck and James Bond are bunkmates, have been for the last twenty-odd years, and it finds him again that day. It's an explosion, of course. Those are his specialty, whether it's his fault or someone else's. She's just moved into the other room, out of his line of sight, and where the force of the blast is stronger.

Flames and falling debris be damned. He forces his way through the choking, smoky air, practically blind and struggling to breathe, finding her splayed on the ground. He doesn't even bother to check for vitals. He's getting her out of this building if fucking machine-gun toting zombies attack.

Oh, God, he's been around Q too long if zombies are the first major threat he comes up with.

He carries her out, bridal-style, her body limp and pliant in a way that she never is in her demeanor. It scares him, scares him so much that his joints freeze up and he is very aware of his bones and the blood in his veins and how very, very human they both are.

She wakes up for a bare moment when they load her up into an ambulance. He wants to ride with her, but there have been some faces lurking about and he needs to catch the bastards who did this to her. He's angrier than he's been since that fateful night at his childhood home, a night he hasn't let himself think about for an entire year, and the fact that the anniversary of that night is approaching doesn't make things any easier to handle.

She smiles at him, and her hand comes up to brush at his cheek before falling back down, that simple action draining her of strength. He grabs at her hand, clutches it, feels the warmth and life within before he has to let go and pull away. How she can be the one supporting him, comforting him, when she is the one who's life is in danger, is another thing he has yet to understand about her.

The men responsible are dispatched within a few hours, which means he can speed over to the hospital in his new car (Q drives him nuts but he's smart enough to know that the best way to get 007 on your side is to give him a nice, classy car) and take the stairs two at a time to her room.

Mallory's there, fussing and being stern. They engage in a heated debate outside in the hallway before Mallory informs him that he can see her, but that he better report in the morning. The new M then walks off, back to his private plane because as much as he cares for his secretary he can't be gone for more than a few hours, and James goes to see her.

She's awake, and her eyes are sparkling in that knowing way. She probably heard every word of his conversation with their boss just now.

He doesn't say anything, at first. He feels incredibly guilty but no apology will be enough and she'll just shoot him down if he tries it, and he can't find any words because his voice seems to have been scared away at the sight of her strapped to tubes and a heart monitor.

"I'll be discharged in a couple of hours," she assures him. "They've just got to finish processing some data."

"Do you have a place to stay the night?" He asks.

"No. I'll just book a room and fly out in the morning."

"You'll stay with me." He knows he's being a pigheaded controlling asshole about it but he can't… he just can't…

He swallows.

She doesn't respond, but when she's discharged she gets into the passenger seat of his car without complaint. They're not playing with fire just yet, but they've lit a match and will have a merry blaze roaring in a few minutes if they're not careful.

He doesn't really feel like being careful.

Since there's a very old-fashioned gentlemanly part of him that can be quite loud at times he lets her take a few minutes to get settled before he approaches her. Usually he just takes what he wants. Sometimes he has to fight a little, but he's brilliant (if he does say so himself) of sensing when a woman is ready to let him in. He's not dominant--he doesn't snatch, per se--but he goes for it and they go with it.

Not this time.

He has absolutely no idea how she's going to react, and he feels bare in a way that has nothing to do with his state of dress. She turns to him and he steps into her personal space, that area where they're not touching but it's as intimate as if they are.

Neither of them breathes for a good thirty seconds.

Then he brings his hands up, his fingers brushing at her chest, carefully unbuttoning her (stained and torn) blouse and touching her right at the top of her cleavage, that spot he was going for back during that shaving adventure when she batted his hands away with just two words.

She doesn't stop him this time.

He touches her as lightly as he can, simply feeling the skin buzz to life beneath the tips of his fingers, smooth and silky as the chocolate color of her skin would suggest. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, he pushes aside the flimsy blue fabric to reveal more of her to his gaze.

She lets out her breath in a shudder, her body quaking ever so slightly, and they both snap.

Her arms loop around his neck as he pushes his hands up her body to grab onto the sides of her head, his thumbs on her cheeks and his fingers just below her ears, grabbing her and holding her in place so that he can ravish her mouth. She duels him, and he is eagerly drawn into battle. She tastes of honey and wine and spice and chocolate and coconut and jasmine and something crisp and so, so much more. He can identify the unique flavor of every woman he's been with, separating it and categorizing it, but she won't be categorized. She tastes like herself.

Once he's sure that she won't pull away he allows his hands to roam over her body. She's lean and long, very well toned, but just a little soft and curvy in the right places. And she's smooth, so smooth, her skin as soft as crushed velvet but sliding beneath his fingers like a martini down his throat, wet and dry and smooth and harsh all at once. She doesn't make too much noise, only the tiniest of sounds emerging from her mouth, but they are deliciously varied in tone and pitch and cadence, like a finely tuned instrument detailing exactly what makes her feel what way and where and how.

"Eve." He gasps it into her mouth when they break for air before diving back in to bestow openmouthed kisses, pulling and tugging at her lips every time they break apart. He throws everything he's feeling, everything he's been anguishing over for the past however many weeks into that word, her name, her real name that she's never told anyone at M16 except for him (Mallory doesn't count, he has to know, it's his job to know).

"I hate you." Her voice is strong and sure, never breaking, filled with passion and desire and something deeper. It's a little breathy but vibrates down into his core (and his groin, let's be honest). "I hate you…"

He knows why she hates him, because he feels the same way. It's not fair, it's wrong, he can't promise her anything or really give her the life that a partner deserves to give their significant other but it's there and they have to deal with it.

After Vesper and everything that happened in the aftermath, he never latched on to anyone romantically. Instead, he ended up attaching himself to his boss, coming to view her as a mother. They understood each other, they supported each other, and they cared for each other. They let themselves get sentimental, despite the secrets and bitterness that always exist in the world in which they live. Then M died. His M, the one who took him under her wing and loved him like the son she never had, the one who gave him a second chance even though he probably didn't deserve it. Silva was wrong about those scores. It wasn't betrayal--it was elation. She'd lied about his scores because she still trusted him, still believed in him.

Then he lost her, lost her to the prodigal son, and it must have opened him up and left him vulnerable enough to let someone new in. He'd teamed up with Alec on a mission or two and gotten a few pints with Q so he'd relaxed, assuming that this time he could fill the gaping hole with friendship.

Instead, Eve had slipped in.

He can't lose her. He can't. Third time's the charm and if he lets one more person slip through his fingers he thinks he just might sink to his knees and collapse with the weight of it.

She fights him the entire way when it comes to who's in control. She's just as aggressive about getting rid of clothes and teasing with fingers, spreading his precum over him and twisting her wrist as she strokes him. By the time they actually get to the bed they're both covered in sweat and he wonders if he's going to die of sexual frustration before he actually gets to be in her. Foreplay doesn't usually last this long with him.

At this point he realizes that he's got to throw all of his comparisons out the window.

She's surprisingly compliant about it when it comes time to actually get to the main event, lying on her back and letting him do it how he wants. She lets him set the rhythm, too, although she meets him movement for movement. He's buried in her to the hilt and this, this time he won't just let the sensations wash over him. He won't automatically use the little tricks that make it pleasurable for the woman involved. He's remembering this, every miniscule piece of it, and he's going to make this the best bloody fuck she's ever had, because he's pretty sure it's the best fuck he's ever gotten.

She clutches him fiercely, as if she is the one controlling everything, and maybe she is. He can't tell. But those tiny little moans and gasps and whimpers and cries and sighs keep pouring out from her throat and he knows that she's just as overwhelmed and pleasured by this as he is.

He's made it a habit to come quietly--a matter of discipline, almost--to the point where he's automatically silent. But this time he completely lets go, shouting out her name and possibly a string of expletives as well, and when she follows him she cries out his name and he feels ridiculously proud of the fact.

Usually (again with that word) he feels like he's racing towards something or climbing up a mountain, trying to reach a goal. This time, however, he feels like he's falling. And when he finishes he realizes that he never really hit the ground before, and he's only just touching down now. It's not unforgiving concrete or deep drowning waters but a trap, soft and beautiful but a trap nonetheless, keeping him enclosed in this feeling, this devotion, this passion forever.

He can't promise her anything. He can't promise her that he'll live, or that he won't sleep with other women on missions, or that they'll be able to spend the rest of their lives together. But she can't promise him that she won't cut her ties and get herself a normal life (because she can, with her desk job), or that she won't find a good, stable guy, or that she won't get herself caught in the crossfire again. So they don't promise each other anything, and opt instead for having sex all night until his legs hurt the next day and after he completes his assignment and gets back to the hotel room he promptly collapses and sleeps for a day and a half.

And when he next walks into the front office she actually accepts his gift (a necklace) and lets him take her out to dinner that evening. It takes four months for him to sell his flat and just move in with her (it's not like he's there much anyway and they always end up making love at her place).

Because while bad luck sits on one shoulder, good luck sits on the other and when he fell there was someone there to catch him.


End file.
